


Yes

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Nurses, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7017217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What women say to each other alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes

“Yes.”

“That’s all you’re going to say, my fine Baroness?” Bridget Brannan replied. She’d found Mary in the little room she used to treat the prostitutes and while she still couldn’t help shaking her head at the thought of it, those painted hussies! she admitted that the women were generally much more matter-of-fact and appreciative of the care as long as there were no men about. To be sure, the care often included whatever was leftover in the stew pot and a hot cup of coffee, but she considered that they were able to eat it at their leisure and without needing to wheedle or entice anyone. Mary was entirely practical and kind towards them without the holier-than-thou attitude Bridget had expected when the Yankee widow had first put forward her proposal to offer the camp followers medical care. The last of the women, a girl really, almost certainly not baptized Clarinda, had just left, her cheeks naturally pink after the bowl of stew and herbal tonic Mary had given her. She’d seen the fond look Mary had given the girl and the shy, disbelieving smile she’d gotten in response.

It had been a good moment to confront her, she thought. She was not on her guard as she was when Nan Hastings was about, nor was she as calmly formal as she was when she walked the wards. She was wise then—the men needed the reminder she was the Head Nurse and a lady and both were easily forgotten with fever, desperation, pain and the sheer terror of facing their Maker. It was the same though as with falsely named Clarinda; Mary was sure to give a smile or a gentle touch to the boy who truly needed it, the man it kept from the abyss. She had not Nan’s skill with the bandaging or the procedures the nurses were allowed, had been known to flinch while lancing a pustulent wound. Nothing turned a hair on Nan Hasting’s head, but Bridget had found Mary vomiting in her little make-shift kitchen after the corporal from Delaware had been found riddled with maggots but it had been a sorry sight and she’d only turned slightly pale when she’d seen the boy and had kept her hands steady throughout.

She’d grown to like the woman. She admired Nan, respected her clinical skills and her wicked wit and implacable determination, but Mary Phinney von Olhausen had reminded her of a time long before the War, before she’d lost her own man and two boys to the cholera, when Bridget Brannan had a soft spot for a tinker or the neighborhood harum-scarum boys who might be sure of a bit of soda bread from her kitchen. She liked how the Yankee widow didn’t put on airs and graces with her title but didn’t deny it. She’d recognized the look in her eyes, the look of a widow of a much-loved man and she’d nodded to herself when she saw her wear her black lace collar and cuffs, the jet brooch at her neck on Sundays. She liked that Mary’d tried to claw out Bullen’s eyes, which Bridget had laughed at the same day, and that she’d seen how the chips lay and had set up her little kitchen. She liked that Mary kept a tin of tea for her there and never commented on how often she made a cup.

She’d seen it from the start. He’d been taken with her from the moment she arrived and she was startled by him in a way Bridget suspected she never had been before. They watched each other as discreetly as they could but she’d been Matron for a long time. It had changed after he was ill for those weeks and she alone tended him; he was less critical with her and more apt to simply avoid her, but soon enough he couldn’t bear Nan’s constant assistance at his surgeries and the little Confederate nurse tried her best to stay with the Rebel boys. She’d seen the change in his gaze and the way a practical Yankee widow of thirty-some flushed or touched the curl above her ear where it brushed her cheek and knew what Mary wished to do instead. The man had a wife, maybe a worthless wife all the way in California, maybe not; maybe he had a wife who’d wanted him all to herself and he’d not been willing to be that husband. She had no lack of certainty about how he’d respond to any request, wish or come-hither look from Mary, the Union be damned. She had a good idea of how Mary felt and Dr. Foster too, two people caught. ‘Twas a pity, for them both but she thought perhaps she could stem the tide.

So, she’d asked Mary, did she realize how it would look, what it would mean if Summers ever stopped drinking long enough to notice or if the new man, McBurney, had a pair of eyes to see? Did she see the risk to herself, her good name, and the risk to his, less so but still enough to impugn a man some already wondered about, a Maryland man who’d seemed too fond of his own medicine? Did she know what she was about, what showed in her eyes? Did she truly love the man the way it seemed she did, body, heart and soul, did she long for him so much she was walking the hospital halls at night, did she love him enough to do what needed to be done?

She’d surprised herself with her loquacity. It wasn’t like her, not anymore, not Matron Brannan. Maybe Bridget Brannan of Elmgrove Street, who attended St. Elizabeth’s parish church and tucked two blue-eyed boys to bed every night, but not Matron at Mansion House. Mary surprised her even more; her lips hadn’t trembled and she had looked her straight in the eye when she responded. But Bridget Brannan had seen what it cost her, had seen the warmth and the hopeless dream, the unanswerable prayer, the simple gratitude that another woman knew her particular pain in this hospital of broken men.

So, when she’d heard Mary’s simple response, she’d done the only thing she could. She’d patted her once, twice on the forearm, and looked dead at her, without a smile, without judgment. She’d seen the start of tears and the swallow, Mary’s white throat in its black collar. She’d known she would say her rosary an extra time this evening and all the others, a prayer she couldn’t end, the solution known only to God and not even the Blessed Virgin. She let her hand rest on Mary’s calico sleeve and said, “Well then, Baroness, I suppose we’d best get back to our work.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my response to the "yes" prompt and can be read in concert with "No" but can also stand-alone. I love Matron and I wanted to give her more backstory-- she is underused in my opinion in canon, so I try to fix that in fanon. This story doesn't pass the Bechdel test but at least it is about women talking to each other, without men interrupting.


End file.
